rage is not beautiful.
it is the ugly head of a rabid animal
foaming at the mouth,
worms in its heart.
it is the ugly head of a rabid animal
foaming at the mouth,
worms in its heart.
At long last, his heart sings, beating like the heart of a giant, loud enough that he hears it when he closes his eyes. At long last, it has come to this: the meadow, a cottage rimmed in clumps of orange and blue wildflowers, a lawn dabbed with fallen petals from a pear tree fighting tooth and nail to stay in bloom.
The first tap, tap, tap, was the door he swung open to meet the king's eyes, when the devil in Andras met the devil in Ipomoea and they smiled at each other with rows of sharp, yellow teeth. He had not needed to be told. Andras has not slept, has not eaten, has not thought for the day or so since their last meeting; his hunger is too vivid and red, his rage is too sticky and black. For the moment there is nothing in Andras but what he has always meant to be: blind anger, clawing pain, and bones that ache to take something apart, be it them, or him.
--Then, as he follows above, the silhouette of some large vulture against the sun that still warms his back though he's burning away as he flies. Tap, as Andras ticks his hooves against the trunks of old trees; tap, when two branches clack together as his wings fold and open; and a tap, that turns to a loud crack of thunder, when Andras sees the king slow and then stop at the gate to the cottage and the warden's anger eats him alive.
He had known Emersyn, he thought. Had stood with her in the war chamber that rang like churchbells with every syllable, still except for flecks of dust floating diagonally through each shaft of cold, gray light. He had looked her in the eye and thought her to be like him--angry, always; pragmatic at her best, bitter and callous at her worst-- but he had not seen it, the thing in her just as black as his anger but three times as vile.
He had not seen that she was a cesspool, of sorts. Something rotten. Something crass.
Something really and truly evil.
Thana and Ipomoea enter the cottage but Andras stands still at its threshold, crackling so loud he can't hear the creak of the floorboards underneath. It is dark inside, at stark contrast to the summer day perched just past the porch. It's fitting he thinks before he forgets to think through the rising hum of his magic that hurts when it pops on his back, his shoulders, his wings--that it should be so calm, almost peaceful, without, and this bloody, black hole from within. There is a song in him now, drums as loud as their booming thunder when Eligos rolls its black spine in time with the loud clatter of Thana moving to block Ipomoea from--
Andras feels his mouth twitch but he is not part of it. He feels his wings flex over his back but they aren't his wings. He hears himself call her "Traitor," but it is not his mouth, not his body, not his blood singing for blood and the snap of broken bone and vindictive, gnashing teeth. When he grits his teeth they spark.andras
The first tap, tap, tap, was the door he swung open to meet the king's eyes, when the devil in Andras met the devil in Ipomoea and they smiled at each other with rows of sharp, yellow teeth. He had not needed to be told. Andras has not slept, has not eaten, has not thought for the day or so since their last meeting; his hunger is too vivid and red, his rage is too sticky and black. For the moment there is nothing in Andras but what he has always meant to be: blind anger, clawing pain, and bones that ache to take something apart, be it them, or him.
--Then, as he follows above, the silhouette of some large vulture against the sun that still warms his back though he's burning away as he flies. Tap, as Andras ticks his hooves against the trunks of old trees; tap, when two branches clack together as his wings fold and open; and a tap, that turns to a loud crack of thunder, when Andras sees the king slow and then stop at the gate to the cottage and the warden's anger eats him alive.
He had known Emersyn, he thought. Had stood with her in the war chamber that rang like churchbells with every syllable, still except for flecks of dust floating diagonally through each shaft of cold, gray light. He had looked her in the eye and thought her to be like him--angry, always; pragmatic at her best, bitter and callous at her worst-- but he had not seen it, the thing in her just as black as his anger but three times as vile.
He had not seen that she was a cesspool, of sorts. Something rotten. Something crass.
Something really and truly evil.
Thana and Ipomoea enter the cottage but Andras stands still at its threshold, crackling so loud he can't hear the creak of the floorboards underneath. It is dark inside, at stark contrast to the summer day perched just past the porch. It's fitting he thinks before he forgets to think through the rising hum of his magic that hurts when it pops on his back, his shoulders, his wings--that it should be so calm, almost peaceful, without, and this bloody, black hole from within. There is a song in him now, drums as loud as their booming thunder when Eligos rolls its black spine in time with the loud clatter of Thana moving to block Ipomoea from--
Andras feels his mouth twitch but he is not part of it. He feels his wings flex over his back but they aren't his wings. He hears himself call her "Traitor," but it is not his mouth, not his body, not his blood singing for blood and the snap of broken bone and vindictive, gnashing teeth. When he grits his teeth they spark.
@ipomoea @thana @
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
